The hall porter, who knew her, after calling to a page-boy: “Major Winton—sharp, now!” came specially out of his box to offer her a seat and The Times.
Gyp sat with it on her knee, vaguely taking in her surroundings—a thin old gentleman anxiously weighing himself in a corner, a white-calved footman crossing with a tea-tray; a number of hats on pegs; the green-baize board with its white rows of tapelike paper, and three members standing before it. One of them, a tall, stout, good-humoured-looking man in pince-nez and a white waistcoat, becoming conscious, removed his straw hat and took up a position whence, without staring, he could gaze at her; and Gyp knew, without ever seeming to glance at him, that he found her to his liking. She saw her father's unhurried figure passing that little group, all of whom were conscious now, and eager to get away out of this sanctum of masculinity, she met him at the top of the low steps, and said:
“I want to talk to you, Dad.”
He gave her a quick look, selected his hat, and followed to the door. In the cab, he put his hand on hers and said:
“Now, my dear?”
But all she could get out was:
“I want to come back to you. I can't go on there. It's—it's—I've come to an end.”
His hand pressed hers tightly, as if he were trying to save her the need for saying more. Gyp went on:
“I must get baby; I'm terrified that he'll try to keep her, to get me back.”
“Is he at home?”